Mary
by SecretCapulet
Summary: *CAUTION: CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SH2* James contemplates his life and his devotion to his ill wife Mary. Short one-off.


******** CAUTION: MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD FOR SILENT HILL 2! ********

* * *

It seemed like he'd spent years sitting in that chair, staring at the cracks in the light pink walls, dotted with stains and smears left from previous visitors. Memories of their time there, left behind and forgotten. James often wondered what stains he'd leave there when the time came, but then again, who was he to decide what memories, what pieces of his existence to ignore? _Whatever will be, will be, _he mused, still staring at the faded cream ceiling.

It was often the case that his days were spent doing nothing but sitting in that same old chair for hours on end until his legs numbed and back ached from the hard wood digging mercilessly into his spine. So to pass the time, he simply watched. Day by day, he watched as the delicate spider web in the far left corner of the room collected dust and unfortunate insects, turning a sickening colour he couldn't quite describe. Something between bronze and grey, he concluded. It wasn't the most cared-for room in the building, but it was peaceful, and for what it was, it was just fine. Mary seemed to like it there anyway.

The hospice air was hot and musty, heavy with the scent of disease and wilting flowers that littered the room. They had been sent from well-wishers, some that she barely knew, all offering their hopeless condolences through pastel cards and 10 dollar road-side pansies. He'd bring her flowers too, sometimes, but more often than not she'd push them away, claiming that she didn't want them, that she was disgusting and undeserving of flowers before screaming at him to leave her alone. He'd let it get to him sometimes, allowing the bitter words of an unrecognisable hatred to seep in, making him feel strangely victimised. He'd still bring them, though, even if she didn't care for them and even if it meant being screamed at and made to feel guilty and unwanted. All he wanted to do was to show her the love that she so urgently deserved.

Mary coughed; deep, heavy wheezing that pierced the warm silence, as if death had already taken her, if not for her gently rising chest that reassured him of her persisting life. Startled, James shifted in his chair as his eyes darted sharply to his wife, cold and weak beside him; her pale, yellow nightgown twisted and crumpled with discomfort. Carefully, he took her brittle hand in his own, gently stroking her knuckles in an attempt to soothe her.

"James," she moaned as her eyes opened sluggishly; her voice so weak and coarse that her words were barely audible, even in the stale silence that lingered in the hospice walls. "I'm so sorry, James", she whispered shakily, trying to overcome the stubborn lump of guilt and despair forming in her throat. "You must hate me," she whispered.

Caught off-guard, James swiftly shook his head and dismissed her claims with a nonchalant wave of his hand, but truthfully, deep down somewhere inside him – somewhere dominated by darkness and angst, fuelled by lonely melancholia - he knew his wife was right.

He resented her. Over the past few years everything he had grown to love about her had slowly withered away to nothing, allowing venom and gloom to take its place inside her and eat away at her subconscious. The woman lying in front of him was not his wife, despite the faded gold ring hanging off her lanky finger. The Mary he knew was kind and gentle; everything that this monstrous imposter was not. Now, thanks to the disease that was slowly devouring her, if she wasn't screaming at him over the most trivial obscurities, she was wallowing in her own self-pity, begging for him to love her and kill her in the same fragile breath.

Something snapped inside of James. An overwhelming wave of despair washed over him, viciously conquering his composure after months of repression. Stricken by a bout heat and dizziness, he stood up, shakily finding his feet. It was clear to him now, what would make everything better; for Mary and for himself.

Carefully, he placed a tender kiss to his wife's burning forehead and gently ran the back of his shaking hand down her soft, pink cheek as he silently reached for the pillow beneath her.

* * *

So it's been quite a while since I last uploaded a story. So long, in fact, that I am now in first year university. So sorry about that, in case any of you were wondering if I was ever going to submit anything new (which I doubt there are, really)

I wrote this short story for a project in year 12/senior year of highschool and I've finally gotten around to submitting it. If you're a fan of Silent Hill 2, I hope you enjoy it, and if you're not, sorry I have included an enormous spoiler.

As always, reviews/constructive criticism is always welcome :)

xx Maddie


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